Ritual
by Sierra Janeway
Summary: Once a year, Natasha faces one of the more unfortunate demons from her past. Based on a story that my own ballet instructor told me, only because it's me I made it sad. [Oneshot, implied Clintasha, Red Room references, FEELINGS]


_Disclaimer: All characters and such belong to Marvel._

 **Summary** : Once a year, Natasha faces one of the more unfortunate demons from her past. Based on a story that my own ballet instructor told me, only because it's me I made it sad. || Oneshot, implied Clintasha, Red Room references, FEELINGS ||

 **Chronology** : post-Avengers

 **Pairings** : Clint/Natasha implied

 **Rating** : K+ just in case

 **Author's Note** : I'm still having massive Natasha feelings, especially since I started taking ballet and reading the comics. This was supposed to be short. Whoops.

* * *

There were few rituals Natasha kept.

Any kind of pattern or routine was dangerous for a spy, an agent, an assassin - it gave the enemy valuable insight and opportunities to take advantage, to gain the upper hand. It had been one of the first concepts drilled into her head as a child in the Red Room.

But occasionally there was something important enough to make the risk worth it.

Natasha knew Coulson was curious. It was her only standing appointment of any sort. But he was also deeply understanding and not the type to pry, and she requested very little in the way of personal accommodation. She suspected he was more than happy to give her this one thing, the last weekend in May.

Clint knew about the weekend. She'd told him about it the first year she'd gone, when she came back shaky and distracted and uncertain - but also somehow relieved. He'd watched her with concern, made her sit down, held her hands while she struggled for the words but never pushed her to speak at all. And that helped the story come tumbling out, piece by fractured piece in a voice much softer and less steady than her usual tone. He hadn't said a word until she was done, and then only gentle phrases of acceptance and understanding and then he just held her all night while the past kept washing over her like the tide, tumbling her like a stone.

But he helped her keep her head above water and in the morning she knew she had to go again. The pain had come with an inexplicable healing, however slight.

Now, this year, like all the years past since she had begun the ritual, she slipped into a nice dress - the silky fabric against her skin for once not meaning deception but honesty - as her sound system played a piece by Tchaikovsky. For a long time that music had been a trigger she had to fight with every fiber of her being, to keep calm and collected in front of any witnesses, to keep any weaknesses well hidden. But now, she thought as she leaned towards the mirror to swipe mascara through her lashes and a muted red color across her lips, she could almost enjoy the sound. It was still fraught with the complicated emotions and memories of her past, but those were slowly being matched by new ones, ones that held a tenuous positivity.

She called for a cab and it was waiting at the curb at precisely the time she'd requested. She made some slight small talk with the driver as they pulled out into traffic, but mostly she rested her head against the glass of the window, absorbing the cool sensation as she regulated her breaths to ward off the anxious feeling that had begun to wind tendrils around her heart and her lungs, even as she looked forward to the evening. It had taken many years to etch that darkness inside her head, and it would take many more to buff it away, if it could even erased at all.

When the taxi pulled up to its destination, Natasha roused herself and put on the self assured smile she wore so often, paying the driver and adding a $50 tip before stepping onto the sidewalk where she held a red leather clutch to her stomach as she gazed up at the theatre. It was a long, wide red brick building that had faded with time, but the entrance spire still stood strong on the face of the structure, knifing proudly into the sky as it glittered with lights and fancy script announcing its title. She stood transfixed for a moment, the muted sound of classical music wafting out of the propped open doors digging up those old, ugly memories and making her suddenly wonder if she had made a mistake. Her heart raced and for a moment she couldn't catch her breath.

But then a new sound broke through the pained white noise of the past - a sound at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum - and she blinked as the present world came back into focus and she turned to watch the source of the sound: a gaggle of young girls racing up the stone steps towards the theatre, giggling and shouting at their families to hurry up. Their light spring jackets gapped to show the soft pink leotards they wore underneath, and their hair was either carefully pulled back into a tiny bun or combed neatly and clipped with a barrette or two if it was short. Some of them carried the athletic bags that held their ballet slippers, others carried a slipper in either hand and talked excitedly, even as their parents pleaded with them to be careful. Some girls nervously latched onto a parent, looking up at the building with apprehension, and had to be gently coaxed forward with reminders that their friends and teachers would all be there. Everywhere there was movement and noise and excitement.

Natasha started breathing again, her heart jolting once more but now for an entirely different reason.

She joined the crowd of people moving towards the theater, watching as the tiny dancers disappeared into one door off to the side and she became part of the line forming at the ticket window. Still in a sort of blur, she bought a ticket and went into the lobby where she paused to catch her breath again and sip from a water fountain. There was a buzz of activity there too, this one of families and pride and anticipation and a sense of months of preparation all coming to fruition. She tried to take it all in, trying to reconcile how different this was from her own excuse for a childhood...

After a moment, she made her way into the theater itself, smiling kindly at the parents and friends who shuffled from place to place as they found their seats. She took a seat herself towards the back, near a corner, where she wouldn't be taking a preferred seat from someone who had a real reason to be here - a child to coo over instead of demons to silence. She sat stiffly in her seat, letting the buzz of conversation wash over her and doing her utmost to keep her hands from trying to work out her nerves by twisting the program in her lap into little pieces.

When at last everyone had taken their seats and announcements had been made and the house lights went down, she was simultaneously relieved and struck with fear once more. She hid it perfectly, as always, but it was still there, perching on her shoulder, whispering its black memories. She was a little ashamed of how much this still took out of her, that she wasn't yet recovered from an ages old trauma -

And then the curtain went up and a spotlight slowly bloomed over a tiny girl in a tutu smiling nervously out at the audience, doing her best to hold her position as the music began but obviously squirming a bit from nerves. The light slowly expanded to illuminate the entire group - a class all full of little girls in matching leotards and tutus and tights, with varying levels of concentration on their faces - and for another moment she was back there again, in the Red Room, performing for all she was worth, heart in her throat because if she made a mistake it meant punishment and punishment in the Red Room could be death, her place in the program given to a stronger girl.

But there in that moment, the music stirred to action and the girls hopped into action, far from perfect but clearly trying...and no one yelled at them. Instead, there was a warm murmur of approval and excitement and pride that went through the crowd, shifting and murmuring and careful adjustments to cameras and phones with video recording. It was not the first time she had witnessed this phenomenon, but every single time it startled her just a little until she readjusted again. Here, it was art.

Not training.

Her nerves were still humming, but the longer the tiny ballerinas danced, the more her nerves calmed. The recital had begun with the youngest class, kindergarten girls in matching pink sequined outfits who had more energy and enthusiasm than talent so far. But not a syllable of disapproval was uttered from anyone. Not when half the class seemed to forget the choreography and they made up their own moves, not when one of the small dancers got distracted and stopped to wave frantically at her mom with an enormous grin on her face. She tried but failed to smother a grin when the class got lost in the steps again but one very determined blonde kept going and seemed to know what she was doing and all the other girls craned their necks at desperate angles to see what she was doing and to try to copy her steps. Instead of criticism, there was a boundless love. A love that wasn't limited to just a girl and her family, but a sense of the whole community swelling with pride, ready to lift and encourage and teach. There were no consequences here. This was about expression and art and learning. There was only dancing and hopeful emotion and colorful movement and a gentle sense of being part of a benign beauty. Even as the youngest class finished and everyone applauded and the next class took their turn, progressing in age one grade at a time, there still was a sense of calm instead of judgment or desperate, fevered concentration. A sense of pride rising in the air around her that almost seemed palpable. The older girls were more skilled, but no less loved when they made a mistake.

For a couple hours, the old was washed away and there was only the new as Natasha sat and absorbed the way things could have been.

Clint was waiting for her when she returned, aimlessly tidying in the kitchen, pretending casualness as she came inside slowly, dropped her purse by the door, set her jacket aside and just stood there silently for a few moments, staring at nothing.

When he finally spoke, it was calm, conversational, gentle. "How was it?" He kept cleaning things that didn't need cleaned, staying busy and seeming focused on other things to give her a sense of privacy even though she knew he was really focused on her, ready to adjust his actions according to her answer.

Her heart settled in gratitude. "It was nice," she said softly, her emotions having worn her out more physically than she would have liked to admit. But once again, it was a good kind of tired, a healthy kind of tired. Like detoxification after a poison. And every year, it got a little easier.

Clint finally turned to look at her when she spoke, smiling at her answer. "Go change," he said gently.

She followed his instructions, went to her room and slipped into a worn pair of soft gray sweatpants and a loose blue t-shirt she had stolen from Clint, and padded back to the living room slowly, pausing halfway to smile gratefully when she caught sight of the meal he'd set out on her coffee table. Cheap wine and cheap pizza. "You're incredible," she murmured, flopping down beside him on the couch as he poured her a drink and handed her a paper plate heaped with pizza.

"Not as incredible as you," he replied seriously.

They sat and ate, not talking, and when the food and drink were gone, Clint stretched out on the couch and Natasha stretched out on top of him, nestling into his chest as he pulled a blanket over them and curled his arms around her.

And she fell asleep, dreaming of a small ballerina with red braids, twirling her best but not perfect, dancing from mirror to mirror while people smiled and clapped and her heart soared like a feather on a breeze.


End file.
